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My son’s good friend Hameed Zahran passed away tragically around this time last year.

His friends mourned him across religious and ethnic divides.

It never occurred to them – or to my son that this was a Moslem who died. He was their friend, the boy next door who strummed his guitar and sang out loud during breaks. The first one to volunteer for anything.

He will stay in their memories that way.

For years, I have sworn by my daughter’s Paeditrician the trusted Dr Azyan Shafik, a student of late Dr Stella who was a legend and a stalwart in Sri Lankan paediatrics.

It has never occurred to me or to anyone of us that he is a Moslem.

Whenever we are in the mood for well prepared, tasty biriyani, we look no further than the trusty old Majestic Hotel. The owner is a Moslem, but it has never ever occurred to me to question his faith before tucking into the delicious rice.

Often enough, we order sawaans from Moslem owned eateries – mostly because they are easy to serve and often suffice for big groups of guests.

No, we don’t wonder about the religious beliefs of the eatery owners.

A step further, when Thajudeen was mourned across the divide as a clear case of misconstrued justice for a human being, I don’t recall anyone mentioning his faith.

Why has it suddenly become a dangerous factor that is forcing us to pause and take stock if ethnicity or as in this case, a religious group, is something to be worried about.

Having recovered from years of blood shed and mayhem, if anything I want to teach my children as Sri Lankans, is to think Sri Lankan. Not to be limited to a time or a space that calls for narrow straight jacketed thinking that smacks of insecurity and bias. To even think that someone in the orbit of tomorrow must consider a person’s religious or ethnicity before his or her qualities as a human being, should be worrisome to us all.

Hear me out here – yes, there are extremists on both sides.

As there always are. But the majority of Sri Lankans, whether Moslem, Sinhalese, Tamil or Burgher , are not and are only happy to lead their lives and mind their business.

If a nation can be governed through insecurity gnawing away inside about a particular ethnic or a religious group who could be positioned as a threat, then we have learnt nothing from our deeply scarring experiences with the 30 year old war. We have only burdened the next generation with prejudice, colouring their world view for good.

We are no longer in isolation today. We are a part of the vibrant international community, whose larger than life presence on social media can pick up vibes in seconds and form opinions without facts.

We have opted to forget that in such a interlinked world, no ethnic or a religious group can stick to their corner and cry wolf. It doesn’t work that way. If someone can play on your insecurity, then you have not evolved much.

When we shop or hunt for bargains, we don’t choose to dwell on the shop owner’s ethnicity. When we choose a product or a service, the religious affiliations or the ethnicity of the owners, often does not come into play. We choose what we want. It really doesn’t matter.

Some of Sri Lanka’s biggest and best known companies which employ thousands of Sri Lankans of all ethnicity and religions, are owned by Moslems. There are Moslems working side by side with fellow Lankans in companies owned by Sinhalese.

Matters not to anyone to question the ethnicity or the religious affiliations of the owners when applying for a job.

Where would we go if we give in to extremists? Where would our children be able to come together as a nation to go past the mistakes and the mishaps we have come through as a nation, to celebrate unity in diversity?

My son schooled at the great school by the sea, S. Thomas College Mount Lavinia where he learnt the best lesson of all – getting along with all shades of fellow Lankans. Although a Christian school, STC was a great place that brought together Sri Lankans of all faiths and ethnicity. Even today, my son and his class mates do not see themselves through the coloured lens of ethnicity and religion – but as Sri Lankans of Generation Z.

There has always been something special between fathers and daughters.

I realized that early on. A fully fledged Daddy’s Girl, the highlight of my life was when my father would take me every last week of the month to the Lake House Bookshop and together, we would buy books. Even today, I can close my eyes and smell the sweet fragrance of new books in that wonderful book store all those years ago.

Today, watching my daughter with my husband, the close bond they share, brings back memories of the father-daughter connection that lasts a lifetime.

Today, the citizens of the United States of America elected their President for the next four years. Donald Trump defied all odds and proved the pundits wrong to capture the seat of the most powerful individual in the world ; he was a true winner in the eyes of his voters. But in the eyes of Ivanka, his daughter who led the front lines and was always by his side, he will always be her father, her true hero.

I remember a picture from the early days of their campaign – the camera captured her adoring eyes, her admiration for her father who let’s face it, built a successful empire on his own. She has chosen to wear the Trump laurels well, succeeding with her own brand of clothing and serving on the board of some of the companies of her father’s business empire. In a recent interview, she told media that she was indeed glad that not one of the Trump children had turned out to be a social liability.

In contrast to other campaigns and other contestants, Ivanka was the constant face beside her father in the election campaign, graciously given the passenger seat by her step mother Melania. It was a sweet moment to watch the daughter beside the father – through the nail biting campaign, through the mud, the accusations, the take downs. Ever the dutiful daughter, she never wavered but stood firm in her conviction that her father was what America needed.

Not even when a few Hillary supporters chose to attack and boycott her brand, Ivanka chose to stay put and do everyday things, holding her peace. A mother and a wife and a role model in her own right, Ivanka’s devotion to her father and her belief in his capacity to lead their country, cut through it all. Here was a daughter who was standing by her father’s side. If nothing else, it bode well for everything The Donald meant to the everyday, middle America that the Hollywood pundits and Washington DC number crunchers did not care to give any credit to.

There’s something that’s credible about such a father daughter relationship ; it is not orchestrated. Her presence by his side may have reassured the voters that here was a father-daughter duo who were, celebrity status aside, just like the millions of families who wanted to vote right. It was not a well put together show nor one of Washington’s seasoned career politicians in a sassy PR act ; the honest sincerity in Ivanka’s presence by her father’s side would have convinced a million Daddy’s Girls to vote for her father.

The media have used words like quiet resilience and under stated elegance to describe the woman who would soon be America’s First Daughter. She has been identified as his closest advisor although she has tried to downplay the role. To her credit, Ivanka made it a point not to outshine her stepmother Melania. They stood side by side, flanking the man they both love, two elegant women always dressed right. Trump women were not known for their flamboyant taste and outlandish fashion sense – that is definitely more Michelle Obama territory. Ivanka and Melania have chosen to make elegant but firm statements about who they were and where they were grounded.

Now that the world has recovered from the shock of seeing a non-political businessman capture the hearts of voters in the USA, it might be time for us to move on.

But not before we celebrate the daughter behind the father. All the way.

Two hours later, the Eurostar rolls smoothly into Gard du Nord. I can’t wait to experience the City of Lights. Yet as we step out of Eurostar, the platforms of Gard du Nord, the main railway station in Paris, is nothing like the St Pancras we left behind in London – busy but clean- it hits me soon that Gard du Nord is dirty and not very tourist friendly. Many immigrants parade here with boards written in bad English asking for financial help. They literally walk into you, bold and unafraid. My husband, our two kids and I try to walk out of the station as fast as we can.

Outside, on the taxi line, we hail our first cab in Paris and are promptly charged 45 Euro to get us to our Air bnb apartment. Our host Didier is mortified to learn the amount – robbery, he says and quite rightly so. It seems the usual fare is only about 15 Euros. Our cab driver was an Arab looking immigrant and we didn’t ask any questions.

Having settled in, my husband and I take a walk – the street we are on is lovely, very Parisian – plenty of cafes where people sit and sip coffee, delicatessens where we buy delightfully French pates to go with fresh bread from the near by patisserie..so far, so good.

The next day, we go to Champs Elysees. Triumph de Arc looms over us majestically at one end – we walk leisurely along the tree lined road known famously throughout the world. We reach the world’s biggest Louis Vuitton store soon enough and I am feeling enthralled by the sights and the sounds.

Inside LV, shop assistants clad in chic black LV outfits present LV bags with gloved hands to eager customers, staring in awe at the world’s most coveted hand bag. It is a moment most cherish – one in which you can lose your bearings and for a moment frozen in time, forget all the warnings about the pickpockets and the street hustlers of Paris.

No one inside LV’s shiny store, knows that outside the luxury goods store, pickpockets wait, clad in finery themselves. And that they can swiftly, surely, unknowingly open your hand bag and flick your wallet in no time.

The unfamiliar lump in my throat grows by the minute when I discover, to my horror, that my wallet, with money and credit cards, is missing. We had just sat down for our dose of a Parisian cafe on the great street itself. It was such a powerless moment that is etched, almost frozen in my mind. Even now, I can close my eyes and feel the panic.

Push becomes a shove when my iPhone starts receiving texts of purchases amounting to over 1000 Euros on my stolen cards. I clam up and for a spilt second, cannot comprehend anything. My husband takes over and urges me to call the banks – I do and the cards are blocked. But not before one purchase goes through -albeit for a small amount – on a debit card. Increasingly, the thieves bring down the amounts they are trying to charge on the cards.

Finally, after what seemed like eons, the attempted charges stop.

I walk on, fazed. Being robbed on the world’s most elegant boulevard brings me back to earth with a thud.

I have seen the French police fully armed and ready to confront any would-be terrorist, patrol the streets of Paris. They’ll get the pickpockets, I tell myself.

At the police station on Champs de Elysees, I sit down and try to explain my predicament to the policewoman on duty. She is not impressed – I’m but one of the many tourists crowding the police with complaints of being pick pocketed. One Korean lay sits down, tears in her eyes ; they robbed her money and her passport.

The Parisian police is so laid back you want to do something but you just sit there and pretend you are ok when you are not. Suddenly, the police we grumble about back home seems very efficient to me. This is Pink Panther true to form; departing and arriving policemen and women kiss each other on the cheek in true Parisian fashion, armed to the teeth. This is Paris ; get used to it, I tell myself.

Finally, a policeman is ready to take my complaint. I explain what I lost and in halting English, he nods his head as he types on the keyboard. The French keyboard can be challenging to English speakers.

But wait – the best part in the whole drama is when he pulls out a speaker from a drawer and starts playing classical music. Right there, as he takes my complaint down. He hums and sounds like he is enjoying it all.

I will always remember the singing policeman in Paris. I had never, ever heard a policeman in full uniform, taking down the complaint of someone in distress sing as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

Later, the Frenchmen and Frenchwomen I meet in the local butchery, the patisserie and the pharmacie apologise profusely for the shame of being pick-pocketed- even the cab driver. He shakes his head and says ‘ That’s Paris of today”.

The French are not bad to tourists at all – those who live in Paris have much to do deal with. Roma gangs bother tourists at places where people gather such as Champs Elysees and Notra Dame. The pickpockets, the refugees who hustle for money and the belly of the ugly Paris still exists.

We go for a last night dessert to Avec Ma Blonde, a quaint Parisian cafe on MontemartreDamremont, 18th Arra, our neighbourhood. The cafe is run by Benjamin and his friend.

Benjamin turns out gourmet desserts as only a Frenchman can ; as the sun goes down on a hot summer’s day, the cafe fills up and people eat, drink vine and have great conversations. It’s all very French. And very elegant too. No one wolfs down food – everyone eats slowly, digesting it well, while having the conversations with the ease that only the French can. Laughter and the sweet aroma of Benjamin’s desserts fill the room.

Taking the Eurostar back to London, I miss my cream coloured wallet. And my ID. And my driving licence. And whatever else that was in my wallet, a lot of things that people usually put in their wallets and forget.

The movie based on an actual account of the Great War or the First World War, was not only a touching piece of work but one that so poignantly brought to life the heart wrenching tragedy it truly was. Told through the eyes of Vera Brittain, a young and a spirited woman who fought for the opportunity to study at Oxford and then gave it up to serve as a nurse on the war front, it touches the rawness of a war in which Britain lost the prime of her youth. Vera loses the love of her life and her brother – you share her agony, her pain throughout the movie as she emerges tainted by it all but spurred on. Some of the most poignant moments was when as a nurse, Vera discovers her brother among the corpses of dying men and screaming, nurses him back to health only to see him lose his life at Somme. Then there’s Vera treating an injured German soldier and realizing that British or German, blood flows thick when wounded.

Amidst the hundreds of emotion packed and newly colourised images of the war and the untold casualties it unleashed, circulating on line, there were images of troops from England, Canada and the Commonwealth who, in the heady and emotional rush of volunteering for the greater cause of ‘saving the world’ , gave their lives without hesitation. Those were the days before opinions on wars were cynical and hopeless. They believed in serving and sacrificing – concepts that might somewhat be misplaced in today’s context.

The Great War was indeed gory – as wave after wave of men, whether from Britain, France, Belgium, Germany, Russia, Canada or the Commonwealth including India and Sri Lanka, Ceylon at the time, perished and their blood soaked the muddy fields of Somme, Ypres, Flanders and elsewhere ; they left behind families that grieved and mourned. There were women whose hearts were crushed and children who never saw the fathers. Just like in any war since then but somehow, more brutal and more profound because that was also the last war in which men went forth to fight hand to hand, reminiscent of the ancient battles.

There was something about World War I that was missing in later wars. This was the last war in which people went to fight with old fashioned values intact. Of course, heroism, defending one’s country and heritage, standing up for values one believes in are all sound principles that many may not think twice about bearing arms for. But they certainly are not the driving seat factors they once were.

The generation that fought in the Great War would not only have been appalled at the going ons of today – it would have been so out of place in their mind set. They would be shocked to see how far selfishness has travelled and how much it has impacted our souls. The feel good sensation pursued so relentlessly would not have made any sense to them. They were not politically correct and didn’t think of the need to be – not that they were out of place – they may have lived through a strong class system but they had values and principles too precious to have been sullied by the depthless issues of today.

Today and tomorrow, next year and the year after, as the world remembers the wave upon wave of young men, their gallantry unquestioned, chose to ‘go over’ and be mowed down in enemy fire, we will also remember that like in all wars, someone else drove the agenda that saw someone else sacrificed. In those days, kings led their troops to battle and indeed in the Great War, Russian Tsar Nicholas II was with his troops at the front ( the war, they say with its millions of Russian casualties, was one of the reasons the Tsar lost it all ) but later, as Generals got far and far away from the battle field, the camaraderie was all but on paper.

Queen Elizabeth II taught the world last week a lesson on the importance of being consistent. To a world that loathes long term commitment, winces at the mention of staying together for a lifetime and expects everything in bite sized pieces that can be consumed now and experienced in a nano second , the long serving British monarch is a powerful lesson in the values depicted in the old world order.

Elizabeth II comes from a time that millennials and the children of the mobile phone generation cannot really relate to. She belongs to an era that even today, is truly relished. Just look at the outstanding success of Downton Abbey – the perfect depiction of an era when people had a sense of duty, empathy, traditional values and manners – that was popular for obvious reasons. We may not be too fond of such values on the outside but on the inside, they not only offer us insights into a time that was a lot less stressful but was also the very embodiment of what we may call the art of living and living well.

The Queen personifies this beautifully. Watch her from the time she ascended to the throne as a young girl to the grand celebration of her 90th birthday last week. Little is changed, you will agree. She still holds herself with perfect ease that not only comes from a royal upbringing but also a deeply seated sense of duty. She still behaves impeccably in the presence of guests and is never found to look or sound bored, fiddle with a phone when she thinks no one is looking as some of us are prone to do. She is the delightfully unchanged treasure she was all those years ago. Unchanged. In today’s world marked by versions and updates, in which nothing lasts longer than the next upgrade, Queen Elizabeth II is wonderfully endearing, beautifully consistent.

She can teach the world a lesson or two about keeping a marriage going, the importance of honouring the vows exchanged. Her marriage has lasted, she and the Duke of Edinburgh are a team ; they certainly have had ups and downs as everyone else, but their love, their commitment and their marriage has lasted. That must mean something to all of us. More so to the young who may find the concept of anything that lasts for a lifetime a tough act to follow.

The fact that she is truly a dignitary recognised by all – even the most tough, most anti-royalist leader is supposed to be awed in her presence – must say something not just about her status as royalty but the dignity and respect she has held herself with for all those years. She is not about celebrity status that comes instantly with half dressed photos bordering on pornography, instantly shared with millions of Instagram users for profit – she is about class, dignity and allure that cuts through the noise and fame.

Let’s face it – who are the idols today’s young have, ones they can look to with admiration? Very few – too many of them are idols by virtue of taking naked or semi naked selfies or bearing their body parts in various poses on the internet. Others have trouble staying committed – to a career, to a marriage, to commitment itself. In a temporary world, The Queen is a long lasting, trustworthy, reliable, consistent icon of everything the fashionably liberal modern day pundits look down upon. Her faith is important to her, her duty is priority, her commitment to her people and her country is paramount.

So you will agree that we have an absolute winner, a true heroine of the 21st century, one who is proud to keep working right into her Nineties, who is driven by loyalty and duty, a lesson indeed to us all. History someday will look back at Her story with lasting pride.

When the whole drama of the little boy without a school ( forbidden word – HIV – he is not infected , it is confirmed ) unfolded, what broke my heart was the way in which the little tyke sat, alone and downcast, his face turned away from prying cameras. The little blue shorts and the crisp white shirt reminded me of my son’s first day at the school by the sea. Seeing adults trying to outdo each other in shouting out against his admission to the school of their children, made it worse. This was Sri Lanka. In the 21st century.

As the little guy waited with vacant eyes, there was the silence, loud and clear. Folk on social media argued , appalled by the agitating parents and the school authorities. It was a moment when Sri Lanka would showcase her heritage, her pride and joy, her cultural upbringing, her deep sense of hospitality and her hope for her future generations.

It took a school with a strong and deep Christian heritage from the hills of Kandy, to break the deadlock. And to stand up and tell the world despite the protests, the concerns, there were people whose ethics would not permit them to sit still and do nothing when the call was for sanity and for acceptance. To the end. Respice Finem. In the hallowed traditions of the Trinity College Kandy, the values imbibed within its precincts by men the calibre of Rev. Senior who loved Ceylon and composed the beautiful hymn for Sri Lanka, the tune of which is adapted for Danno Budunge, which caused a storm in a tea cup recently when the well known soprano Kishani Jayasinghe sang it.

And so Trinity it was. It was heartening to see the Principal of TCK sign a MOU with the Minister of Education Akila Viraj Kariyawasam in the presence of Bishop Dhilo, Bishop of Colombo. It was a brilliant move, Trinity – one that showed Sri Lanka and the world that as a Christian school built on values of humility, love and empathy, what it takes to make a difference is action not words. As empty words were exchanged between all parties, verbal swords were crossed and opinions aired, Trinity College moved in with deed, sealing the end of a poignant tale with agape love, as embodied in Christ’s mission to the world.

With a son who just left S. Thomas College, Mount Lavinia, I deeply appreciate the wonderful cultural mix of Christian schools,not just as a Christian but also a Sri Lankan. At STC or at TCK, and also at Ladies College where my nine year old daughter schools and all other Christian schools, the children have the opportunity to mix and blend wonderfully – Buddhists, Christians, Hindus and Moslems work and eat together, laugh together and learn together. To me, it is a truly beautiful representation of the multi cultural country Sri Lanka is. This little boy will get to experience a culture at TCK that is rich with diversity, that represents the true heart of Sri Lanka. Prejudice along racial and religious lines will be far from his orbit.

Thank Heaven for that.

He will have the opportunity to be a man of courage and conviction, a true Sri Lankan who someday, will give back to society what TCK taught him.

When the story broke, I looked around for any links that I may find in my immediate environment to TCK. And found some that made me glad to claim a distant yet a link nevertheless, to this great school – my uncles from my mother’s side , the Devendra clan, taught there. My husband’s clan, Dodanduwa Weerasooriyas have had and continue to have Trinitians among its members. Its most illustrious Weerasooriya was Arnolis Weerasooriya who left the college in early 20th century to serve God ; Arnolis is credited with the arrival of Salvation Army in Sri Lanka. The next illustrious member of the Weerasooriya clan to have graced the halls of TCK was David Paynter, whose mother was Anagi Weerasooriya, wife of Rev. Paynter. David Paynter’s beautiful legacy of murals are etched in the chapels of STC and TCK – brilliant creations glorifying Christ, from the hands of a true master. The chapel at Trinity College is featured on a stamp as well and is recogniszed widely for its uniquely Sri Lankan architecture. My father-in-law Maurice Weerasooriya was also a Trinitian, one of the many Christian boys from Galle who went there.

So Trinity, you made us proud. We salute you because you showed everyone that you could make a difference. Stand up and be counted.

” For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in” – Matthew 25:35

The perfect delivery of the much loved Danno Budunge in operatic style was done with both aplomb and finesse by Kishani Jayasinghe, a soprano whom we should all be proud to call a fellow Sri Lankan.

The story that goes even further, despite the ire of many social media users, is that the original melody of the Danno Budunge was the beloved Hymn for Sri Lanka, penned by Rev. W.S Senior back in the early part of the 20th century. The hymn is still sung in churches throughout Sri Lanka. Rev Senior was an educator in the style of pioneer men and women from Europe and USA who went out to the world – he was the Vice Principal of Trinity College Kandy and contributed immensely to that school.

This, really, is not about Rev Senior, the Hymn for Sri Lanka, Danno Budunge or the stellar reputation Kishani has as a soprano whose voice and talent has put Sri Lanka on the map. It is more about who we are as a nation, where we are and where we are going. About what values we are passing on to our children and in which ways we can connect to the rest of the world.

For some of us, anything western is anathema – but migration to a western country is not. It’s perfectly ok to have children here at home in Sri Lanka or elsewhere in the world who cannot pronounce Sinhala properly but it is not ok to sing a Sinhala song in any other style but the one it is sung in.

It’s ok to drink frizzy drinks and eat fast food – pay no heed to the mantra to return to healthier food and drinks of our forefathers. It’s perfectly acceptable to throw garbage and ruin the fragility of the scenic environment in Sri Lanka – or invite the dengue mosquitoes to breed with unclean drains and polluted environs.

But it is not acceptable for a Sinhala song to be sung in a different yet perfectly acceptable style loved by half or more of the world out there.

The list goes on – and the list is full of hypocrisy and phobias. After some 2,500 years we are supposed to be proud of – I recently came back from a visit to Polonnaruwa during which I took my 9 year old daughter around the ruins and we both fell swelled in our chests about the feats of our ancestors – we are more inward looking and insecure than we were during the days of kings.

The world runs on innovation. That’s the buzz word for economic, business, social and personal success. Granted we must be proud of our heritage and who we are – but we also must emerge as capable and relevant in the world of today. The ostrich mentality will only serve to sink us further – like some truck stuck in the sands of time unable to get its wheels out of the mire.

The world of today is not limited by race, creed, caste or religion. It combines it all, making a perfectly stirred pot of all nationalities that strengthens and reinforces the hope of humanity. The lyrics of the Hymn for Sri Lanka are penned by a clergyman who loved this land like his own and is buried here, and is set to lilting music by Deva Surya Sena, who pioneered the style of local and traditional singing of Sinhala hymns. The same melody is then transformed into the beauty of Danno Budunge and has enthralled generations with its simple yet profoundly sweet melody.

In a nutshell, this melody connects the nation at many different levels. To me,it embodies the spirit of Sri Lanka as we are – Christian, Buddhist, Hindu, Moslem. The true spirit of a nation in which we all share the common space to grow, to work, to gather together to worship our God or gods.

When Kishani Jayasinghe sang Danno Budunge on 68th Independence Day, it was not the first time. She sang it last year, at a concert titled Kishani Sings With Friends – her rendition of Amazing Grace and Danno Budunge were applauded with gusto. But it took a post of her singing going viral to generate the kind of contempt that can only come from a deep sense of insecurity ingrained with a false sense of pride which is contrastingly different from the real love one feels for one’s heritage and identity.

For the generation of today who connect seamlessly via social media and the internet, the world is their oyster. They can relate to all kinds of music, which for them transcends all barriers.

Let us learn a lesson here from the young ones. And they surely have plenty to teach us.